


Holes In The Ground

by Crowley_Is_My_Copilot



Series: Dark Harlan [2]
Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Bar Room Brawl, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowley_Is_My_Copilot/pseuds/Crowley_Is_My_Copilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Rituals In Strange Places'. </p>
<p>There's something about small towns that make it easy to get sucked into, even for a six hundred year old demon like Mic, and Boyd Crowder doesn't make it easier. Things are taking a turn she's not quite prepared to face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take A Walk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andy - as always](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=andy+-+as+always).



> Based off a RP over a year in the working. Takes an alternate twist on the Justified storyline. Feedback always appreciated, this is the first time I've written like this in a very long time.

No twigs or leaves crunched under her feet as she moved, unnaturally quiet through the woods. It had been four days and Mic was still in Harlan. She didn't know _why_ ,yet here she was, fist full of silk in hand to keep her skirt from snagging, trudging around the hills. Nature. She hated nature. If she had stopped and told herself the truth, she did know why. It was curiosity. Like Lot's wife she had looked back and Harlan had started to pull her under.

Or not **_Harlan_** , just one man that had piqued her interest. 

Boyd Crowder. The name felt strange in her mouth. She stopped, shoulder against the rough back of the tree. Inadvertently, she had gotten too close, this time in the literal sense. He was less than forty feet away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly slumped. Taking a quick step back, her foot caught on a fallen branch, snapping under her weight. She cursed. He looked up, that grin breaking out across his face. Her own expression was bordering somewhere between mortified and annoyed.

"You following me?"

She made a face, nose wrinkling like she smelled something rotten, before she stepped out.

"It's a small town," Mic said.

"Well, I would say that's true except we aren't in the town and these hills are much larger."

"Maybe I came up here to kill you." It was certainly a thought she had entertained when she set out looking for him.

"Oh, I think if you had wanted to do that, it would have happened already," he said, ambling up to her. There was a pause as they looked at each other. "Go for a walk with me?"

She hesitated, pushing back a bit of tangled dark hair. She should say no, the word was on the tip of her tongue but she found herself nodding. One hand snaked out his jacket pocket, almost connecting with her elbow but stopping short. Mic pulled her arms in closer as she followed after him.

"I **could** kill you, you know.," she said, after walking a few yards. He laughed, the opened mouth smile creating wrinkles on his brow and in the corners of his eyes. "Why are you walking with someone like me?"

"I don't doubt that but I suppose I like to live dangerously."

"You don't get much more dangerous than walking with a demon."

"Demon? Is that what you are?" she asked, hazel eyes meeting her brown ones. There was no fear on his face and she was surprised. 

"Yeah, that's what I am. --You're a strange man."

"Now why is that? Because I enjoy pleasant company?"

"I've never been accused of being pleasant before." A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth.

He laughed again and Mic almost smiled.

"Accused of being pleasant! I haven't heard it put that way before, Miss Mic."

"I don't have your way with words but I try. I'm more of the hands on type," she said, a sly smile finally creeping up on her face.

"Am I to assume that you have created your share of bodies?"

"More than a few."

He fell silent and she watched him from the corner of her eye. His smile had changed from bright to thoughtful, almost sad.

"You should be careful walking these hills. All kinds of holes for people to put bodies in." There was an odd tone to his voice that Mic couldn't place.

"Are you threatening me?"

"No ma'am. You're new to Harlan and I'd hate to see you get swallowed up by this place."

"You're only looking out for me," said Mic with a snort of laughter, accent thickening slightly.

"In a manner of speaking."

"Why?"

"I find myself intrigued by a woman in silks who proclaims to be a demon."

"I don't proclaim anything. I just am."

That grin was back on his face.

"Ain't that the truth. We just are what we are," he said, clapping his hands together.

"What are you, Boyd Crowder?"

"Me? I am a simple man jus' trying to stay afloat in this crazy world."

She laughed.

"I don't believe that. I think you've put bodies in those holes you told me about. I think you're a monster like me."

Boyd came to a stop, turning on his boot heel, and fixed her with an intense look. Once her soul had been stripped bare and she felt that way again, while he was looking at her. It made her uncomfortable. He had the expression of someone who had heard similar things before and was used to beating down the person who said them. It wasn't far from the truth. 

"Mic," he said, as if weighing the name without the prefix he attached. "I do believe you have the measure of it."

"I can be insightful." She tilted her chin up, a small act of defiance in a situation she wasn't sure of yet.

"I have no doubts," he said, spreading his arms out wide.

For a moment, Mic stared at him before she grinned, shaking her head softly. Then she turned to go. Her thoughts were jumbled and she needed to get out of this fresh air and back into the stuffiness of the motel room, turn the volume on the TV way up, and put it out of her mind.

"I'm sure you don't. Goodbye, Boyd."

"Watch out for them holes," he called after her.

Once again, she looked back at him. He should have warned her about that.

"I will."


	2. Bar Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's not a lot to do in a small town but the local bar is always a good bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for language and racism.

The walk in the woods had stuck with her. She had watched all the movies the pay-per-view had to offer. Some of them twice. American Creampie had been particularly riveting, but not enough for her to stop thinking about the talk she had with Crowder. It was proving almost impossible. People didn't like her. Most of them tried to kill her once they knew what she was. With good reason; she was evil and generally caused them all manner of grief in the form of murder and chaos. Typical demon things.

But he had spoken to her like a person even if he had annoyed her in the process. After all the years on the run, trying to stay ahead of those who wanted her dead - from Hell and otherwise, it was almost _nice_. She hated that, really. Turning the TV off, she tossed the remote onto the bed. She heard an excited shout from the bar next store and gave a resigned sigh.

* * *

 

When the door to Johnny's opened and the patrons quieted slightly, Boyd looked up from where he was leaning behind the bar. She looked like a deer in headlights, bright saree and dark skin and a confused but almost haughty look on her face.

"Well, look-y here," he called out, slapping the bar top in front of him. "Come on in, have a seat right here, best spot in the house."

Mic sighed in vague relief at the sound of his voice, shoulders relaxing. She thought she could see her reflection in his teeth across the room. That combined with the hair sticking up all over was almost charming. 

 _ **Almost**_. 

She moved to the bar, head held high, feeling the eyes on her. Slipping onto the bar stool, Mic gave Boyd a wary look.

"What can I get you?"

"Do you own this place?" she asked, gesturing around the room. 

"In a manner of speaking, yes. It's part of the Crowder family enterprise. Tell you what, for this momentous occasion, I'm gonna break out the good stuff from the back."

She barely had time to process all the words thrown at her before had turned and headed through a back door. Not for the first time, she wished that he used smaller words and fewer of them. When he was gone, the chatter rose once more and she caught a few words.

"--fucking foreign bitch."

Her mouth set in a hard line.

"Hell, I'd still fuck that ugly pussy. Make her scream and send her back to wherever she came from."

Mic clenched the edge of the bar, wondering how quickly she could rip out their vocal cords. But she didn't have the chance. A blur of motion and Boyd had crossed the bar in one easy sweep, almost empty bottle of booze in one hand. Turning casually on the stool, Mic watched with a sort of detached interest, thinking that he was surprisingly limber for someone of his apparent age. The bottle cracked against the temple of the second man to speak. He dropped what was left and delivered one, two, three punches to the man's face, blood splattering. 

“You best get whats fuckin’ left of your face outta my bar ‘for I start raisin’ the floor to meet the rest of your filthy face." He turned to the other. "You too. Now go on, _get_!"

Chairs hitting the floor, the uninjured man half-dragged his friend out of the bar while the rest of the customers muttered and went back to their drinks. Boyd came back around the bar, grabbing a rag and wrapping it around his hand. It was the first time Mic realized he had cut himself. With his good hand, he put two glasses onto the bar. 

"Now how 'bout that drink?"

"You didn't have to do that. I can handle myself." The tone in her voice held the 'thank you' she didn't give voice to. She nodded at her glass and watched as he filled it.

“Courtesy is courtesy m’dear, I’m sure you could have lifted him up to the heavens just to have him crash to earth, but that would involve you havin’ to even think ‘bout it. Side’s you’re my guest in my oh-so-humble bar," he said, picking up his glass and inclining it towards her. "Might have done it with less vigor but sometimes I get carried away and lose where the line ought to be drawn."

"I never knew courtesy involved hitting people with bottles. I like it." She took a drink, watching him dabbed at the cut on his hand, and smiled at him. "But I suppose not knowing where to draw the line is what makes people like us."

“Oh? Is that what marks the beast? A shortsightedness for metaphorical lines? Because in that case we might just be in the voting majority ‘round here.” He returned the smile.

"Maybe. You should put something on that," she said, pointing towards his injured hand.

"Aw, is that a hint of concern I hear there, Miss Mic?" 

She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, managing not to smile or slap him. Either one would have been applicable. 

"No. Just an observation."

"That's right, you're insightful," he said with a laugh, leaning on the bar. "Almost forgot."

"You didn't forget."

He laughed again, lifting his glass and draining it all in one go. 

"No, ma'am, I didn't."

"Just Mic. No miss or ma'am," she said, taking a sip of her drink. 

"Alright, jus' Mic. Why don't you tell me a story?"

She adjusted the bangles on her wrist before leaning both her elbows onto the bar, watching him, deciding how to answer that request.

"What kind of story?"

"How about you start with what a woman of your peculiar being is doing in this esteemed town of mine?"

Mic stared at him then looked down at her glass, rolling it between her hands. It wasn't easy for her to come up with answer. She had been wondering exactly why she was here. The reason she had come was easy. It had been the first place she had come to after leaving the last town on the long list of places she had gone through in the past year or so. The why of her staying this long when she would have been gone by now wasn't so easy. She looked up at him.

"You know, I think I'm just starting to figure that out." 

 


	3. Light My Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mic gets pulled in deeper, struggling with instinct and things she doesn't understand. Boyd is just the start.

"Stupid," Mic muttered to herself, tossing an article of clothing at her bag. "Stupid, stupid."

For the past hour, she had been packing and unpacking, pacing back and forth, trying to decide what to do. It shouldn't even be a question. She should leave. Boyd had asked why she was still here and she had given him a half-answer which was quickly becoming a _real_ answer, much to her chagrin. Things like her weren't meant to stick around little towns and play nice with the locals. Her hands should be covered in blood by this point. Outside, she could hear the swell and lull of music from someone opening the door of the bar.

She turned on the TV and tried to ignore it.

Her plan worked for a few hours until a rerun of some crappy reality show came one and she got up to look out the window but found herself opening the door instead. The music from the bar had quieted but the lights were still on. Mic sighed, pulling the door shut behind her, and started down the metal stairs. At the door to Johnny's, she hesitated before opening it and stepping inside.

"Sorry we're closed!" Already the smooth voice with an accent so different from her own was familiar. It unsettled her.

"It's just me." A pause. "The door was open."

Boyd came in from the hallway off to the side, thumbs in the pockets of his jeans and a smile on his face.

"Mic. I am glad you decided to grace me with your presence once more, 'specially considering your last visit I thought you might have lit out of Harlan without saying goodbye. Have a seat."

"You have a flare for the dramatic, don't you," she said as she sat.

"So I have been told. Did you figure out why you're still here yet?" he asked, leaning against the bar, almost too close to her for comfort. Mic shifted on the stool, eyes focused on the buttons of his vest.

"I'm not sure."

"It hard, being what you are? I mean, do you lack a higher purpose or is one bestowed on you in the Pit?" There was a sincerity on his face that gave her pause, made her search for an honest answer instead of lies. 

"I used to have a purpose. I was the Warrioress, like a glorified guard dog for Hell, doing all their dirty work but I got tired of it. Now--"

"Now you loiter around hillbilly bars and work dark magic in parking lots," he said, a glint of humor in his eyes.

"Something like that."

"Well, for what it's worth coming from a country bumpkin like me, I'm glad."

Her eyebrows came together.

"Really?"

"Yes, ma'am. I mean Mic. You'll have to excuse me, old habits and all." He slapped a hand against his thigh. "Would you care for a drink?"

"A beer."

"One beer coming up," he said, pushing away from the bar and walking around it. He opened two bottles and set them down before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He popped one in his mouth. "You don't have a light, do you?"

A grin appeared on Mic's face even as her eyes went black. She held up her fingers like she was about to snap them but instead, flames seemed to dance on them without burning her skin. Boyd's mouth fell open and he had to scramble to catch his cigarette.

"Are you scared?" She hoped he would say yes and she could squash whatever odd feeling was in her stomach. 

"No. No, not at all," he said putting the cigarette back in his mouth. "Startled me is all."

He leaned forward and inhaled, the tip of the cigarette turning orange.

"You're the first." Mic shook out the flames then picked up her beer, taking a long drink.

Raising his beer, he knocked it against hers.

"Here's to hoping it's merely the beginning in a long line of firsts." 

Mic didn't answer right away, looking at him with her head slightly tilted, before blinking away the blackness in her eyes.

"Maybe it will be."


End file.
